Feels Like Coming Home
by RWM1995
Summary: It's been four years since their ugly breakup, and Scorpius Malfoy is finally coming home to Rose Weasley.


**Feels Like Coming Home**

"What the actual _fuck_?"

He bites back a giddy grin; she hasn't changed at all, still long-limbed and bushy-haired and wide-eyed and radiating nervous energy. She even wears the same silky floral bathrobe over what he hopes to God is her skimpiest nightgown. "Hello, Rose."

"Don't 'hello' me," she hisses, narrowing her eyes. "It's two o'clock in the morning, _Malfoy_. Get the hell off my property."

"Merlin, I've missed you," he admits honestly, wisely refraining from pointing out that, technically, the flat belongs to her Uncle Harry and her "property" amounts to little more than a closetful of singed Auror robes and an admittedly impressive collection of vintage Quidditch trading cards. "Can I come inside? I've travelled all day and-"

She laughs at him. Actually throws her head back and laughs at him, but he waits. He figures she's been waiting four years for this moment, to wound him the way he knows he wounded her, so he waits.

"Are you serious?" she asks finally, swiping at her near-hysterical tears. "Are you actually serious?"

"I'm back, aren't I?" he says, more harshly than he intends, and he winces when she begins fumbling in her pajama bottoms for her wand. "Hey . . ." He holds up both hands, takes a step backwards. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Ha!" She shoots him a scowl. "Scared I'll wake Al? Or maybe that I'll run away? To fucking _Bulgaria_?"

"Don't be so loud-"

"I'll be as loud as I want!" she bellows, fairly shaking now. It would be comical, really, if it weren't so goddamn humiliating. She sucks in a slow breath, blinks quickly to dispel the tears rushing to her eyes. "You _left_ me, Scorpius. After everything we went through to be together, you left me. For a _job_."

"I missed you every day," he murmurs. "And I'm . . . I'm here now. To stay. If you'll have me."

"I can't think of one good reason to take you back," she whispers fiercely, and he longs to press desperate apologetic kisses to her flushed mouth.

"Well, I'm still sexy as hell," he blurts. It's not what he _meant_ to say exactly, and he expects her to hex him or slap her or at least knee him in the bits, like he she did the one time he commented on Dominique's knockers, so he's surprised and rather nauseated when she bursts into tears, burying her face in her white-knuckled hands.

"Oh my God, Malfoy," she sobs, "you haven't changed a bit."

"Don't—I say, Red—what I meant was—buck up—come now, can't you just—"

"I could _murder_ you!" she howls, surging out the doorway to grab his lapels and shove him roughly against the porch railing. "It's been four bloody years, and you still behave like a fucking _teenager_! This isn't a _joke,_ you arse! You broke my heart!"

"I'm sorry," he amends quickly, grasping her hands and holding her gently at arms' length—just out of mauling distance. "Rose, I'm so sorry. I love you. I loved you when I left for Bulgaria. I—"

" _Fuck_ you."

" _Please_ just listen to me."

"Oh, that's rich! Like you listened to me when I begged you to stay? Piss off!"

He has a firm hold on her wrists, and he worries that if he lets go, she'll reach for her wand. "I love you," he repeats, searching her gaze for some remnant of the affection she once held for him. "Believe me, if I could change the past . . . if I could do things over again—"

"You can't," she interrupts thickly, and the tears are streaming freely into her mouth, and his heart shatters, and he prays for patience. "It's too late, and I'm much too old to play these games with you." Her breath is coming out in these labored, halting shudders, and he hates himself for doing this to her. "Please just go away."

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, his hold on her wrist slackening. "God, Rose, I'm . . . I'm so sorry."

She chokes out another sob, folding her arms across her middle and bending at the waist, her head pressed against his sternum. "I want so badly to hate you," she croaks.

His gut tightens painfully, and he knots his fingers into her thick curls. "Rose-"

"Don't," she whispers, turning away. "Don't speak to me. Don't look at me. Don't fucking _think_ about me."

"But I will," he tells her simply, stepping closer to wrap an arm around her middle and hug her from behind, pressing his face against her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "And I did, every second of every day for the past four years. If I could have contacted you, if I could have come home, I swear I would've."

A sob tears from her throat; he feels the trembling of her body straight to his core. "I _waited_ for you!"

"I know."

"I put everything on hold for you, Malfoy. My career. My future. My dreams. Everything. And things are just now settling into place for me. So you don't _get_ to waltz back into my life and–and–and disrupt it all over again. That's not _fair_."

"I know." He reaches for her arm, spins her around.

"Don't touch me," she snaps. "I have to see a goddamn shrink because of you." He coughs loudly to disguise his laughter, and she glares up at him. "Her name is Sheila. We discuss feelings and shit. She thinks you gave me an abandonment complex, and I'm afraid she's actually right about it."

"Rose—"

"Even Albus said to forget you. Everyone did. And I tried, I really did." Her voice breaks again, and she bites down hard on her lip, sliding her eyes closed. "I tried, Scorpius. But you fucking broke me."

He feathers his thumb across her cheekbone. "I'm sorry," he whispers. It's all he can do now, apologize, and it's funny because he's a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't apologize or grovel or beg, and here he is, on a Weasley's front porch, doing all three.

She doesn't move, and when his hands slide over her shoulders, down her sides to bracket her waist, she shudders beneath his touch and breathes, almost inaudibly, "I can't believe I still want you. After all this time, I still fucking want you."

In the morning he won't remember who moved first, but he will remember that Rose tastes like salt and lemon Bertie Botts. He will remember kissing the tears from her face and plowing his hands into her mused hair and moving far more quickly than he intended. He will remember that she ripped the buttons from his Oxford in her frenzy to be close to him, and that when he lifted her in his arms to carry her inside she whispered something along the lines of, "I knew you missed me."

Mostly, he will remember that she feels like coming home.


End file.
